If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (32 page)

Various people came to see Stark. The consultant, the anaesthetist, a physiotherapist, then an orderly with a wheelchair to collect him for his appointment. It took him a moment to grasp that Doc Hazel meant to make good on her threat. Stark was wheeled into her office in his tatty hospital dressing-gown with only his hospital gown beneath. He felt exposed and embarrassed and hungry. Always hungry with Hazel. Two of his least favourite things. At least his appetite was resurfacing.

‘You have secrets,’ said Hazel, without preamble.

‘Not any more,’ he replied.

‘I find that doubtful. I take it you kept this one from your employer.’

‘I kept it from everyone.’

‘Do you wonder about your motive there?’ she asked.

‘I was under orders.’

‘Most people would confide in someone, friends, loved ones …’

‘Military orders don’t leave wriggle room.’ A convenient lie.

‘Even so.’

‘You think everyone had a right to know?’ Of course she did but she wouldn’t say so. She’d couch it in another question.

‘Don’t you?’

Stark made a pained expression. ‘Right doesn’t come into it.’

‘It’s bound to impact on –’

‘Of course it will,’ Stark interrupted impatiently. ‘But telling people sooner wouldn’t mitigate that. Nothing will. The only thing I could control was how soon I had to deal with the consequences.’

‘What consequences?’

‘The inevitable fall-out, the bullshit, the misinterpretation –’

‘Misinterpretation?’

‘Yes …’ Stark rolled his eyes. ‘How did I just know you were going to write that down?’

Hazel laid her pen flat on her notes. ‘Because it’s an interesting
choice of word, and you know it. One I find curious, as you probably knew I would. Do you mind if I ask you again about that day?’

‘I mind. I minded the first time I was asked and every time since.’

‘I wonder if you actually enjoy it.’

Stark was stunned. How dare she?

‘Feel compelled to, is perhaps closer to the mark,’ she allowed.

‘I’m compelled by you, by this process!’

‘Consciously, perhaps, but there’s no disputing that unconsciously your brain takes you back there almost every night, when you’re not confounding it with medically unwise cocktails, that is.’

So she knew, or had guessed. No doubt she couldn’t wait to start tugging at
that
thread. But that wasn’t where she was going for now. ‘We’re back to survivor’s guilt, are we?’ he said.

‘Were we ever away from it?’

‘You tell me,’ said Stark.

‘Okay.’ Hazel counted points on her fingers as she spoke. ‘The nightmares; your visiting the dead men’s families; your fixation on the mother and boy; your unrelenting drive to recover faster than medically cautioned; your decision to move away from family, friends, colleagues, to start again alone against the advice of both your physio and psychotherapist; your refusal to face up to your spiralling debilitation since that point; and, my personal favourite, walking around on a broken pelvis.’

‘I didn’t know it was broken.’

‘You knew it hurt and that it was getting worse. Did you think you deserved it?’

‘Can’t you do any better than that?’ asked Stark, exasperated. Christ, he was weary of her fat-fingered fumbling!

‘We’ve talked about why you might be putting yourself through all this. We’ve talked about guilt. You’ve acknowledged it. But you haven’t accepted it,’ said Hazel, bluntly.

‘Of course I have,’ replied Stark, in surprise.

‘Intellectually perhaps.’

‘You think I haven’t, what, taken it to heart?’

‘Have you?’

‘Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?’

‘Perhaps it isn’t guilt,’ suggested Hazel. ‘After all, you’ve said yourself they weren’t friends of yours.’

Stark’s rage exploded. ‘Sweet Jesus, woman!’ Tears were welling. ‘Can’t you understand? What fucking difference does it make whether they’re friends or you fucking hate them? You fight alongside them! You’d die for them! They’re not friends, they’re family, from the second they take the coin to their blood-choked last breath, you
witless fucking cow
!’ He was on his feet, spittle on his lips, fighting the urge to lash out, to kick the table over, pull down the shelves of unthumbed reference books on her stupid fucking head, to smash, to beat some sense into her.

He stood there quivering, his fractured pelvis adding its top-note to the chorus of pain.

Hazel’s eyes were wide with fear and incomprehension, her face flushed, her hand on the panic-alarm button that hung around her neck.

‘
Don’t
,’ he managed to say, holding a hand up, palm outwards, the other clasping his hip. Slowly, jaw clenched, fists curled, chest heaving, he dialled it down. ‘Don’t,’ he said eventually, as calmly as he could manage. ‘I’m done. We’re done.’

Her eyes were still wide; her hand still hovered near the button.

As the fury ebbed away, the thought of having scared her left him sick and ashamed. Loss of temper was weakness, the selfish act of the child. This poor woman was probably one step closer to signing off long-term sick for stress because of him. Clueless, incompetent to the point of harm, she didn’t deserve that and, God knew, the public sector had too many already.

‘I’m sorry. I was out of order. Please don’t be scared.’ He took another deep breath, leaning on his good leg, teeth gritted, unwilling to move. ‘Look, this is getting us nowhere. I’m sorry to be blunt, but you don’t have a clue. You’ve never dealt with PTSD before, have you?’ She wasn’t about to admit it but she admirably managed not to avoid his eyes. ‘Look, why don’t you see if there’s someone you could refer me to?’ Dump me on, he thought privately. Had she the nous to seize the chance?

‘Yes,’ she agreed, scribbling on her notepad to hide her relief. ‘Yes, perhaps that would help. A colleague … I could confer with my peers and find the best person … soon have you ship-shape, send you a new appointment … 
blah, blah, blah
,’ she finished sarcastically.

Stark was shocked. She wasn’t smiling, but she was holding his gaze and … there was something in her eyes. Triumph, almost.

‘Feel better?’ she asked. ‘I know I do,’ she continued, before he could think. ‘Though for a moment there I thought I might be looking for a decorator or even a dentist.’ Now she smiled. ‘Why don’t you sit down before you fall?’ Unbalanced, he complied. ‘I wonder if you realize that’s the first emotion you’ve ever displayed in this room?’

‘I –’

‘I also think it might be the first time you’ve told me the truth.’

‘Wh–? I’ve never lied to you! I’ve always answered your questions. Last week I sat here and unburdened my bloody soul!’

‘You sat and talked for a solid hour without telling me a single thing I didn’t already know.’

Stark was gobsmacked. ‘How can you say that? I told you everything!’

‘You told me everything you thought I wanted to hear.’

‘And you sat and wrote it all down.’

‘I wasn’t writing what you
said
, Joseph, I was writing what it told me.’

‘And what was that?’

‘That you think I’m an idiot.’

Stark blinked.

She cocked her head at his surprise. ‘That even after all this time you’re not ready to engage. That inheriting the role of man-of-the-house at a tender age fostered an imbalance in you, setting duty before desire as if that might forestall further tragedy. That to manage this you instinctively limit the number of people you allow close. But that in “taking the shilling” you unwittingly adopted new family, breaching your own barriers and exposing you once more to bereavement beyond your control. That the horrors you experienced, including the marketplace bombing you never mention, played a significant role in your SAS application and repeat volunteering. That physical incapacity has further undermined your sense of potency, forcing long-suppressed emotion to surface as simmering anger you would rather lose another finger than express.

‘That all this has left you resenting any help offered you, that you now link remedy with cause as if by holding the former at bay you can
exert some control over events past and present. And that you’re in serious danger of sliding further into self-destructive behaviour simply to feel as if your life belongs to you and not the memory of those you think you failed.’

‘How dare y–’

‘You’re a bright man, Joseph, but a little too capable of knowing it. I may be an idiot in some ways but not in this.’ And suddenly she didn’t look it. ‘Your therapist at Headley Court warned me you were a tough nut to crack. He thought my experience with trauma victims would be useful.’

Stark blinked again. ‘Your –’

‘PTSD isn’t always combat-related.’

They locked eyes, appraising each other. For his part Stark saw for the first time that she had the upper hand completely. ‘You’ve been playing dumb, all this time. This has all been a wind-up.’

‘He also mentioned you had a discernible superiority complex that might prove useful.’

‘Christ! Whatever happened to doctor–patient confidentiality?’

‘I am your doctor.
We
are your doctors. What exactly did you think was in this file?’ she said, tapping the thick folder.

Stark was still reeling. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be like the Magic Circle or something? You’re not supposed to show dupes how you dupe them.’

‘There’s little we won’t stoop to, Joseph, if it’s called for. And I think it’s time you and I showed each other what’s up our sleeves, don’t you?’

The post-operative nursing care was spookily attentive. Stark was a curiosity. He coasted through the first week in a depressingly familiar stand-by mental state: meds, meals, blood pressure, wound inspection, pay TV, books, naps, maternal visits. To avoid the misery of a full pelvic cast he was confined to his bed. Groombridge popped in with Fran on day two, talking about the case to avoid predictable awkwardness.

Naveen had been granted bail with electronic monitoring, the rest remanded into custody. CPS were pressing them all to plead guilty. Nikki Cockcroft’s barrister had pressed hard for bail, claiming Nikki’s ‘pink-haired bitch’ comment was based on rumour circulating after the event, a thin lie but a canny one, and that everything else was circumstantial or the result of Kyle Gibbs’s action alone.

‘A dead accomplice is even better than a stranger in a pub.’ Fran laughed. ‘I honestly thought the judge might let her out. You should’ve seen her face when he refused!’

Stark wished he’d been there but was too uncomfortable to share Fran’s mirth. ‘Still, a thin case. What will happen?’

Groombridge shrugged. ‘It depends on whether Paula Stevens is perceived as a credible witness. CPS think they have it. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.’

‘And what about Paula?’

‘Murder looks flimsy, so CPS added manslaughter due to provocation to cover all the bases until the outcome of the sexual-assault case is known. In the meantime she was bailed into the custody of the local battered women’s refuge.’

And in the meantime she faced the prospect of giving evidence against her attackers and the subsequent cross-examination. The cold eye of justice Maggs had tried to divert. ‘And Maggs?’

‘That’s up to him, I reckon. Anyone else and I’d say fifty-fifty.’

‘Liam Dawson?’

Groombridge pursed his lips in displeasure. ‘Naveen Hussein still won’t press charges – soils himself at the mere mention. SCD7’s racketeering project team have been talking to Dawson, putting pressure on, but last I heard they weren’t getting anywhere.’ Groombridge wouldn’t be feeling Dawson’s collar any time soon. Sometimes the big fish got away, but the pain in his eyes said those were the ones you never forgot.

The following week Stark pleaded with his doctors to be allowed to attend the first of the hearings. They laughed at the notion, of course, and he had to wait for Fran to fill him in.

On the first four assaults Harrison Collier, Martin Munroe, Paul Thompson and Tim Bowes had pleaded guilty to grievous bodily harm, Section 20, and assault without intent, and received sentences from six months to three years for each. The judge ordered that their sentences be served consecutively. Colin Messenger and Tyler Wantage had pleaded guilty to GBH Section 18, assault
with
intent, and got sixteen years apiece. Naveen Hussein pleaded guilty to Section 20 as an accomplice, claiming duress, and as a juvenile received only six months in total, with a concurrent six months for trying to board a plane with his cousin’s passport, for which his mother got three months suspended. He still faced charges relating to Internet crime when the much larger case came to trial, but he insisted Kyle and Nikki had forced him to upload the videos.

All had pleaded not guilty to the murder of Alfred Ladd and sexual assault on Paula as joint principals. They would await that trial in their prison cells. Nikki pleaded not guilty on all charges and would await trial on remand.

Other than that, the second and third weeks were a return to the bad old days of mind-numbing tedium and discomfort, plus awkward conversations with Doc Hazel.

On the Friday of week three the cast on his hand was replaced with a removable splint and, after demonstrating he was an old hand on crutches, he was discharged. Late that evening Fran smuggled him out of the hospital via a secondary delivery bay hidden in the back of an unmarked van. The press had slithered away but there had been two further attempts to sneak past security. A nurse had been suspended for taking a picture of him on her phone and selling it to a tabloid.

Streets away they switched into Fran’s car and headed for Hampshire and the dubious sanctuary of his mother’s house.

It didn’t take long for news of his escape to leak. The following morning a reporter door-stepped his mother and received short shrift. A pair of photographers hung around all day and the curtains had to remain drawn. Despite the crutches, he might’ve paced like a caged animal were his mother not there to insist he rest.

His sister, Louise, visited with the kids but friends and old comrades were politely told that he needed peace, quiet and rest. There was no turning away Colonel Mattherson or Captain Pierson, of course, or the CPS.

On the day of Maggs’s trial the press were back on the lawn. A dozen local uniforms held them at bay as Stark was whisked away in a van. Paparazzi on a motorbike tried to snap his picture as they raced along the motorway but were pulled over by the unmarked car trailing them.

As a material witness, Stark was forbidden to contact Maggs. To his dismay the murder charge hadn’t been dropped. A secondary charge of manslaughter due to provocation was entered, though Maggs had maintained his not-guilty plea to both.

As Stark took his seat in the witness stand Maggs nodded to him but nothing else. The questions were simple, the cross-examination painless. He had worried that everything would be dragged up, from the media storm to the painkillers and whisky, but the truth was he was insignificant to the case.

That night he stayed in Fran’s spare room. The press were watching his flat. His neighbour had confirmed that the lift was still broken. He expected to find Fran’s flat devoid of life, a barren monument to her skewed work–life balance, empty fridge, pristine flat-pack furniture. Within seconds he realized he’d completely misjudged her. Almost every wall was lined with family photos, Fran posing with parents, brothers and their wives, endless beaming nieces and nephews and Caribbean relatives of every shape and size. Many had been taken in Barbados. Her fridge was full to bursting with fresh ingredients, many of which Stark didn’t recognize, and the tiny kitchen was a-clutter with the kind of robust cooking paraphernalia that spoke
of practicality and heavy use. He was hard pressed to remember her consuming anything other than coffee and a Danish in his company.

She settled him with a beer and the TV remote and set about the noisy preparation of flying-fish with cou-cou and plantain to a secret family recipe. When it was done she plonked the tray of stunning food on his lap. ‘There you go, Constable Sideways.’ She smirked.

Stark grimaced. She’d been digging. She’d done well to get this gem, given the lockdown there had to be around his records right now. She was a formidable terrier.

‘Funny, most of your old comrades agreed that you weren’t really a nickname kind of bloke. They didn’t make that sound flattering. But most agreed that if you had to have one it would be Sideways. I found the story behind it quite revealing.’

Private Sideways. Of course she’d winkled out the full story. Captain Delaney had not meant it as a term of endearment. The exercise was a standard one: defend a poor position for as long as possible against overwhelming odds. Perhaps suspecting NCO material, they had handed newly recruited Stark a corporal’s stripe for the night and command of the defenders. Delaney had led the attackers. But when his superior force had assaulted the indefensible position they had found it abandoned. Under cover of darkness Stark had moved his force sideways up a nearby hill behind a highly defensible ridge. Infuriated, Delaney had demanded they return and begin again. Stark had asked if he was therefore surrendering. When the captain had said he most definitely was
not
, Stark had sent a skirmishing force to break the stand-off with a sudden burst of fire. Under the wry eye of his major, Captain Delaney had had little option but to lead his assault uphill.

Stark and his force were, of course, annihilated to a man, but only after several hours and after inflicting humiliating losses on the attacking side, including the captain himself. Despite eventually seeing the funny side Delaney had pegged Stark for a smart Alec and never let him forget it. His peers had never let him forget it either and on subsequent night-time exercises someone would often cry out, ‘Where’s Stark gone?’ to which others would answer, ‘Sideways again!’ Half of
the officers and NCOs he’d had since then seemed to have heard the story. Infamy is not a trait desirable to the enlisted man. All you could do was keep your head down.

‘Wow, this is fantastic,’ he said, after one mouthful. Without the OxyContin, his appetite had returned with a vengeance and big, complementary flavours like this were just his kind of food.

Fran raised an eyebrow at the obvious change of subject. ‘Not too much chilli for you?’

‘No, it’s perfect,’ he replied, tucking in.

‘I put in what I’d give my three-year-old niece.’

Stark ate another forkful, murmuring appreciation. ‘You’re a
magician
! The world should know.’ His flattery coaxed the beginnings of a smile from her. ‘I bet Marcus likes Caribbean food,’ he added sweetly.

‘Shut up and eat!’

Maggs took the stand and stood to attention as he was questioned. He admitted punching Gibbs in the throat, adding only that he had a right to defend himself. He was invited by the defence barrister to say he was defending the girl too, but replied that he’d already told her to run and believed she had. He was accused by the prosecution barrister of a calculated act. Maggs agreed. The punch, he said, had come after Gibbs had stabbed him but he made no attempt to link the two. He had been entirely focused on disarming the boy and, yes, he had known the blow had the capacity, at least, to kill. Stark couldn’t tell what the jury thought.

‘Where do you live?’ asked the wigged accuser, conversationally.

‘Somewhere dry, quiet and, if possible, warm,’ replied Maggs. ‘Preferably with decent passing trade and pleasing views of the nearest off-licence.’ There were chuckles around the court.

The barrister smiled too. ‘How long have you lived in this way?’

‘Twenty years or so, on and off.’

‘Why?’ asked the barrister.

‘Because the world has little use for me any more, and I little use for it.’ Again there were chuckles, but Stark began to worry.

‘You had heard about the recent attacks on your brethren. Had you discussed or considered what you might do if confronted yourself?’

‘Discussed, no, considered, yes.’

‘Had you resolved to defend yourself?’

‘I’m not the kind who needs to resolve on that.’

‘No. Had you then considered the lengths you’d go to, if required?’

‘You either defend yourself or you don’t. The lengths depend on your enemy.’

‘Your enemy? You considered Kyle Gibbs your enemy?’

‘I did.’

‘What about the rest of your attackers?’

‘Them too.’

‘You broke one boy’s arm, another’s nose?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t kill them. Why not? Weren’t they your enemy too?’

‘I’ve said they were.’

‘So you disable some and kill others?’

‘m’lord!’ The defence barrister shot to his feet. ‘The coroner’s report does
not
conclude that the blow was fatal. Kyle Gibbs was stabbed to death by Paula Stevens.’

The prosecution was ready for this. ‘M’lord, as has already been discussed at great length, the report equally does not show that the blow would
not
have proved fatal and the accused has admitted to knowing it might.’

Both barristers had made their point; the judge instructed Maggs to respond.

‘They weren’t the real threat. I served them out as a deterrent.’

‘Why did you not “serve out” Kyle as a deterrent?’

‘The other two were his deterrent. He didn’t listen.’

‘He didn’t listen. You also claim that you verbally warned the group of your training. What did you say exactly?’

‘I said to walk on. I wasn’t a tourist, I was a paratrooper.’

‘None of your alleged attackers have confirmed your warning.’

‘Have they confirmed standing by while their mate tried to rape a defenceless slip of a girl?’ retorted Maggs.

The barrister ignored the question. ‘What do you claim was their response to your warning?’

‘They laughed.’

‘And that made you angry?’

‘I was angry the second I saw that little shite pinning a girl to the ground, fumbling for his dick!’

‘The accused will moderate his language,’ warned the judge.

‘So you were angry, furious perhaps, demented with rage.’

‘M’lord!’ protested the defence.

‘Withdrawn, m’lord,’ conceded the prosecution, smoothly. ‘So angry your one thought was to “serve them out”. For insulting you, for what you thought they’d done to other homeless people and what you thought they were trying to do to Paula Stevens.’

‘
Trying to do?
’ spluttered Maggs. ‘They’d done enough –’

‘“They’d done enough!”’ interrupted the barrister. ‘They had to be stopped – by any means.’

‘Yes.’

The barrister let this sink in before asking his next question. ‘You display no remorse for the killing?’

‘
M’lord!
’ protested the defence.

‘I’ll rephrase the question, m’lord,’ said the prosecution. ‘Mr Maggs, do you regret the death of Kyle Gibbs?’

‘No.’

‘He deserved it, you think?’

‘That’s not what I said,’ said Maggs, impatiently.

‘Yet it might explain why you made no effort to seek help for the wounded teenager.’

‘He was beyond help,’ said Maggs.

‘Who are you to make that judgement? Are you a medical professional?’

‘I’m a soldier.’

‘And once a soldier always a soldier. You can judge when a life has expired, you can “serve out” justice, you decide which youth lives and which dies.’

‘Who are you to do better?’ demanded Maggs.

‘I wouldn’t presume. I wasn’t there. But you were and you did what you had to do. They had to be stopped by any means necessary, they had to be served out for what they’d done and you were there to do it, to pay them back, to pay everyone back – society, the world, the Argentine junta, the British Army.’